20. Lyric
CHAPTER 20
LYRIC
I’ve never seen a heart break in real time before.
I wouldn’t love you.
The moment the words left my tongue, I wanted to call them back. I watched Flynn’s face shutter closed, the warmth in his amber eyes going cold in an instant. He didn’t argue. Didn’t try to change my mind. He simply nodded once, stepped back, and slipped into his role as my security detail, as if the man who’d just declared his love had never existed.
It was better—cleaner—to sever the connection now.
At least that’s what I tried to convince myself as I turned to the mirror and tamed my hair into a French twist. But the ache in my chest suggested otherwise.
The yacht’s engines slowed, signaling our arrival at our destination.
“It’s time to go,” Flynn said.
Those four words were so coated in ice, I was surprised I didn’t get frostbite. But I deserved it. He’d given me his heart, and instead of accepting it, treasuring it, I’d weaponized his vulnerability and used it against him.
I was a grade-A bitch.
Still, the mission came first. It had to. I knew with a bone-deep certainty that Sentinel hadn’t been on that truck, and it was too dangerous a weapon to let anything stand in the way of securing it.
Flynn had lost sight of that, so I couldn’t.
I applied a final coat of lipstick the color of fresh blood, then squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and stepped into the skin of Elisa Deveraux again. My posture straightened, my walk became a prowl, and my voice dropped to a cultured purr that held nothing of Lyric Renard’s directness.
We stepped onto the deck just as the yacht nosed into a narrow inlet between soaring cliffs. A stone mansion perched on the cliff face, windows blazing with light. Smaller boats were already ferrying guests to shore. Beyond that, the jungle loomed—too contained to be wild, too quiet to be natural. Even from the water, I could spot cameras tucked in the foliage and sensor lights tracking our approach. This wasn’t just a private island. It was a hidden compound. And as I took it all in, one thought curled cold in my gut: the team had no idea this place even existed. If this went sideways, no one was coming to save us.
One look at Flynn told me he was all too aware of that fact, too.
Moreau waited at the railing, his smile rapacious as he watched my approach. “Ah, Elisa. Magnificent as always. I trust your accommodations are satisfactory?”
Heat flushed by body at the memory of Flynn’s fingers moving inside me and I hoped to hell I wasn’t blushing. “More than. Thank you.”
“I’m sure.” That predatory smile turned knowing. His gaze flicked to Flynn, then back to me.
“Your guard dog seems... subdued. Have you muzzled him?”
“I’ve reminded him of his place,” I said coolly. “He won’t interfere with our business again.”
“A pity. I rather enjoyed his jealousy.” Moreau stepped closer, his cologne enveloping me like a toxic cloud. He dragged a finger over the curve of my shoulder. “I’m interested to see how he’ll react when I finally take what he’s so possessive over.”
Ugh. Like I was nothing more than an inanimate object to be possessed by men.
“He’ll do exactly as I command.” And I wanted to command him to pull his weapon and end Moreau right here and now. Or, even better, tell him to give me his gun so I could do it myself.
I stepped toward the railing, away from Moreau’s touch, on the pretense of studying the island. “Impressive fortress you’ve built here. Very isolated.”
“Yes, well. Privacy is essential in our line of work, wouldn’t you agree?” Moreau offered his arm. “Shall we? The auction begins at midnight.”
The last thing I wanted to do was touch him, but I placed my hand on his arm. “What ever will we do until then?”
“Play,” Moreau said, his eyes darkening. “I have entertainment planned that I think you’ll find... stimulating.”
The way he said it made my skin crawl, but I maintained Elisa’s cool facade. “I’m intrigued.”
As we boarded the small launch that would ferry us to shore, Flynn positioned himself behind me, his presence solid but distant. He wasn’t looking at me anymore—his eyes constantly scanning, assessing threats, exit points, potential weapons. Back to being a professional, with nothing of the man who’d touched me so intimately just minutes ago.
The boat ride was mercifully short. We disembarked onto a private dock where uniformed security stood at attention. Up close, the mansion was even more imposing—a modernist monstrosity of glass and stone that seemed to grow from the cliff face, its angular lines jutting out over the sea like a challenge to gravity itself. Stone steps carved into the rock led upward, illuminated by small lights embedded in the stone.
Thankfully, one of Moreau’s guards pulled him away at the top of the stairs.
“Will you excuse me?” He gestured to the torch-lit path leading through a manicured jungle toward the house. “Please, go in and enjoy yourselves.”
I watched Moreau’s retreating form with a mixture of relief and dread. The moment he was out of earshot, Flynn stepped closer, his body heat radiating against my back.
“Comms?” I murmured, my voice professional, detached.
“No signal. We’re on our own.”
“Figured as much.”
His gaze scanned the perimeter. “I count sixteen guards on rotation, armed with modified MP5s. Four snipers on the roofline. At least two more in the tree cover.”
I kept my smile fixed in place as we passed other guests. “They don’t know about this place?”
I didn’t have to specify who ‘they’ were. Flynn knew I was talking about Ethan and the team.
“No.” That single sound held volumes of tension. “I don’t like this.”
The interior of the mansion was a stark, open space with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the Mediterranean. Servers circulated with trays of champagne and delicate hors d’oeuvres, while a string quartet played softly in one corner. Despite the elegant setting, there was nothing soft about the gathering.
These people were all killers in evening wear.
I recognized most of them from intelligence briefings. Richard Halston, owner of the Halston paramilitary group, held court near the bar, his silver hair immaculate, his smile too big and too white. Across the room, Arkady Reznikov—“The Curator” as he was known in certain circles—examined a small sculpture with detached interest.
Flynn leaned close. “Emilio Benítez is here,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “By the windows.”
I followed his gaze to the older Latino man, who stood apart from the crowd, his weathered face impassive as he surveyed the room. El General, as he was known to his followers, had traded his uniform for an expensive suit, but nothing could disguise the hardness in his eyes.
“And Drexel,” I added, spotting the tech mogul holding court with a circle of admirers. Evan Drexel’s boyish face and exuberant gestures made him look harmless, but I knew better. His quantum computing empire was built on buried bodies and stolen technology.
I squeezed Flynn’s arm once, then released him. “Time to mingle. Keep an eye on me, but not too close.”
He nodded, professional distance firmly in place. Only the slight tightness around his mouth betrayed any emotion.
I slipped into the crowd, a smile fixed on my face as I moved from group to group. I laughed at Halston’s dry jokes about geopolitical collapse, raised an eyebrow at Reznikov’s thinly veiled proposition, and asked Benítez pointed questions about South American political stability that made his eyes narrow with suspicion.
“You’re well-versed in my country’s politics, Ms. Deveraux,” he said, his accent thick but his English perfect.
I sipped my champagne. “I know where my investments will be safest. Politics is just another market to navigate.”
He laughed, a sound like gravel. “A pragmatist. I approve.”
Throughout it all, I was acutely aware of two sets of eyes following my every move. Flynn’s—steady, watchful—and Moreau’s—calculating, hungry, never straying far from me.
I excused myself from a tedious conversation with an Eastern European arms dealer and made my way to the terrace for air. The night was cool but humid, the scent of salt and exotic flowers heavy on the breeze. Below, the Mediterranean stretched black and endless, dotted with the lights of distant ships.
“Playing your part beautifully, I see.”
I turned to find Flynn behind me, close enough to speak privately but maintaining a professional distance.
“That’s the job,” I replied, keeping my voice light for any listening ears.
His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I glimpsed the raw hurt beneath his professional mask. “Is that what you’ve been doing with me? Playing a part?”
Before I could respond, I spotted Moreau approaching and backed away from Flynn.
“Ms. Deveraux. You’re neglecting your host.”
I turned, forcing a smile. “My apologies. I was just admiring your stunning view.”
“There are better views inside,” he replied, his hand sliding to the small of my back as he guided me toward the house. “I have something special to show my most valued guests. Alone.” He shot a look at Flynn. “I assure you, Mr. Mercer, I’ll take very good care of her.”
None of us missed the double entendre in his words.
I allowed myself to be led, casting one last glance over my shoulder at Flynn. His face was carefully blank, but his eyes burned with a promise.
I would not be facing this snake pit alone.
As we returned to the crowded ballroom, Moreau’s hand remained possessively splayed across my lower back. Every instinct screamed at me to twist his wrist until bones cracked, but Elisa Deveraux would never. She’d smile her enigmatic smile, drop her shoulders just slightly to suggest receptiveness without promise. So that’s what I did, even as my skin crawled beneath his touch. I scanned the room, noting Flynn had positioned himself near the bar with clear sightlines to me. His face remained professionally blank, but his eyes never left us—a predator tracking its prey.
Or… maybe its mate.
I pushed that thought away and focused on the gathering of war criminals and arms dealers laughing over champagne like they were at a charity gala instead of a weapons auction.
“More champagne?” Moreau signaled a server without waiting for my response. The server appeared instantly, holding out his tray with a slight bow.
I accepted the crystal flute, using the movement to create distance between us. “Thank you.”
A commotion at the entrance drew everyone’s attention. The security detail at the door was suddenly alert. Vidal cut a path through the crowd and headed straight for Moreau. Once he reached us, he whispered something that made Moreau’s eyebrows rise.
“Interesting. It seems we have an unexpected guest,” he said to me, then nodded to Vidal. “He’s unexpected, but not uninvited. Let him in.”
A few moments later, the crowd parted like the Red Sea for a man who oozed money and arrogance.
“It’s the Ace of Spades,” someone whispered nearby, and I felt the room’s energy shift.
Unlike the other guests who projected their power through volume or posturing, he radiated quiet, lethal competence. He moved with the unhurried grace of a predator who knew he had no natural enemies, acknowledging greetings with slight nods or the barest hint of a smile. His suit was a deep charcoal gray with a subtle sheen and cut to kill. No tie. Collar open, showing a hint of tanned skin on his chiseled chest. His face was all angles, shadowed with stubble that made him look roguish rather than sloppy, and his dark blond hair was styled in that carefully disheveled way that suggested he’d just finished fucking someone senseless. Steel gray eyes swept the room in one economical glance, missing nothing, cataloging everything.
And a half-step behind him, silent as a shadow, was Trent Dalton, his face impassive.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
I didn’t let my shock show. Elisa wouldn’t recognize these men, so I maintained my expression of mild curiosity even as my mind raced. No one had told me Trent was coming. And, if I had to guess, the man with him was the mysterious Decker that Nolan didn’t like.
No one had said anything about backup. The implication was clear: they didn’t trust me to handle this alone.
Decker looked exactly like what he was pretending to be—a high-level arms dealer with connections in every dark corner of the world.
Or maybe he wasn’t pretending?
Trent played his part perfectly, the silent enforcer whose mere presence was enough to make people step back.
“Decker,” Moreau said, his voice pitched between surprise and pleasure. “I wasn’t aware you’d received an invitation.”
Decker’s smile was sharp as a blade. “I didn’t. Have to say, I’m hurt, Nico.”
“I’d heard you retired.”
“You know I never miss a good party. Especially when such unique items are on the menu.” Decker clapped Moreau on the shoulder like they were old friends. “Now, tell me what treasures you’ve brought us this time.”
I watched them move away, deep in conversation, Decker slipping into Moreau’s orbit like he’d always belonged there. My blood simmered with irritation. Had Ethan sent them because he thought I couldn’t handle the mission? Was this another test? Or worse, a sign that I’d already failed?
I caught Flynn’s eye across the room. He gave a slight shrug, eyebrows raised in subtle surprise. So he hadn’t known either. That was something, at least—I wasn’t the only one being kept in the dark.
I circulated among the guests, maintaining Elisa’s persona while cataloging every scrap of information I could. The Yemeni arms dealer mentioned shipments being diverted through Cyprus. The Russian operative complained about increased security along the Georgian border. The Chinese businessman kept checking his watch, clearly waiting for something specific.
All the while, I was acutely aware of Decker working the room, his laughter floating above the crowd as he charmed potential rivals and allies alike. Everyone here seemed to know him, and I repeatedly heard “Ace of Spades” muttered as he made his way around the room.
Ace of Spades.
The death card.
Why was I even here if Edge had a man like Decker in their pocket? If he was powerful enough to just show up at Moreau’s uninvited, with everyone knowing who he was, why waste time with a deep cover like mine?
The sting of not being trusted mixed with something else—a growing sense that I was just a placeholder, a temporary solution until they could get a real operative in place.
I was moving toward the bar when Decker intercepted me, his timing too perfect to be coincidental.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said smoothly, extending his hand. “Decker.”
“Elisa Deveraux,” I replied coolly and took his hand. I really didn’t know what to make of him. He was with Trent, so he had to be one of the team, but he was playing this role with such natural ease that I found myself wondering where the act ended and the real man began.
“Ah.” He bowed over my hand, placing a light kiss on my knuckles. “So you’re Moreau’s pet heiress from Paris. I’ve heard you’re stirring things up around here.”
Was he deliberately provoking me? Testing me, seeing if I’d maintain my cover?
I yanked my hand back and glared at him. “Mr. Decker, I am no one’s pet.”
A slow grin broke across his face. “Decker’s my first name. Sinclair is the family name, but you can call me whatever you like, Ms. Deveraux.”
Behind me, I heard Flynn’s soft growl.
Decker’s gaze shifted to him for an instant before his smile widened. So he wasn’t only here to test me, but he was also appraising Flynn’s performance.
Ethan really didn’t trust either of us.
I don’t know why that realization hurt so much. I’d known it, but having Decker and Trent here just drove the point home.
All this time, I’d thought I was a placeholder for Maya, but what if I was just a temporary solution until they could get Decker in place?
Did I really want to continue with a team that didn’t trust me?
A server appeared with a lowball glass of whiskey and Decker took it without looking at the man.
“What brings you to Moreau’s little soirée?” he asked, sipping the whiskey. “You don’t seem like his usual crowd.”
I smiled. “I enjoy auctions.”
“What are you hoping to acquire tonight?”
“Something that will give me an edge.” I met his gaze steadily, letting a hint of steel show beneath Elisa’s polished exterior. “I don’t like to lose.”
“Neither do I, Ms. Deveraux.” Was I mistaken, or was that a wince he hide behind his smile? “Perhaps we’ll be bidding against each other.”
“Perhaps.” I took a deliberate sip of champagne. “Though I wouldn’t count on there being an auction for that particular item. I’ve found there’s more than one way to get what I want, and I will do whatever necessary to secure it.”
A flicker of approval crossed his face, so brief I might have imagined it. “I look forward to seeing your methods, then.” He leaned in close, his lips nearly brushing my ear. His cologne was just as expensive as Moreau’s but much more pleasant, like spice and smoke and silk sheets after midnight—dangerous and deliberately understated. The kind of scent that stayed on your skin long after the man was gone.
“We’re just back-up,” he whispered. “This is your show, Siren.”
Flynn materialized at my side, his body angled slightly between me and Decker. “Ms. Deveraux, Moreau is asking for you.”
Decker’s smile returned. He stepped back, and this time, there was no mistaking the wince and slight limp when he did. No, I wasn’t mistaken before. He was in pain.
Shit. Had he also been wounded in the op that killed Maya? Was that why I hadn’t met him yet? He was on medical leave with Rafe and Leo?
Decker raised his glass in a small salute. “Until later, Ms. Deveraux.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sinclair,” I replied with perfect poise, though my mind was racing.
As Flynn guided me away, his hand rested lightly at the small of my back—a touch so different from Moreau’s possessive grip. Even now, when I’d wounded him so deeply, Flynn’s touch remained respectful. Protective rather than controlling.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice low.
“Fine.” I kept my smile in place. “Just surprised to see our friends here.”
“Me too.” His hand brushed against mine, a brief, unprofessional touch that sent heat coursing through me despite everything. “Any idea why?”
“Insurance policy,” I murmured, then tilted my head toward where Moreau stood near a hidden doorway, gesturing for his guests’ attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Moreau called, his voice cutting through the chatter. “If you would be so kind as to follow me, it’s time for the evening’s entertainment.”
The guests moved toward him with barely concealed eagerness, champagne forgotten in anticipation of what was to come. I let the current carry me forward, Flynn a steady presence behind me, Decker and Trent somewhere in the crowd.
Whatever Moreau had planned, we were about to see it together.